Oblivion Walker
by BlackBlood1872
Summary: Just when Salthjofr thought he'd finally caught a break, Alduin decided to come back and be a general nuisance. What ever did he do to deserve this? [AU read for some explanations]
1. Chapter 1

Title: Oblivion Walker (though it has nothing to do with the achievement)  
Genre: Humor/Drama (though more humor than drama; maybe later the drama will properly show up? I really don't know)  
Character: kind of Dragonborn, more just OC. Both are labeled because of reasons.

* * *

_Chapter One_

Salthjofr sighed as he leaned against a building. The sky was overcast and actually seemed to reflect his mood for once. He wasn't happy, to say the least, though he wouldn't go so far as to say he was mad. Annoyed, maybe, but nothing so extreme that he did anything more than brood, unlike some of his fellows would have.

If any of them had been given what was essentially a glorified retrieval mission, they would have pitched a fit and leveled a village or something. Probably not on purpose, but maybe so; especially if they'd been dropped off in Windhelm.

Just look at Winterhold. Gunhild _definitely_ had a temper tantrum over her placement. But then again, she'd been young, and if the same were to happen now, Salthjofr liked to think she'd be able to contain herself. Possibly. She was still a brat to him, so he could just be being unreasonably hopeful.

But he was distracting himself. Of course, he _knew_ that, which was part of the reason he _was_ distracting himself. Salthjofr glanced around the village he found himself in instead of following that train of thought.

It was miserable little place, but that could have just been the weather. Or the recent death. He knew about that death, of course, since the first thing he'd done when he appeared here was catch and send on her soul. It'd been an instinctive act, done in the blink of an eye, and he'd been confused afterwards. That had been because he recognized _none_ of his surroundings and because that soul had the feel of something different. Something he hadn't encountered in millennia.

In that moment, he'd understood where he was, even if he didn't recognize the town he was at the gate of. And he'd felt his gut sink as the implications sunk in.

Why the hell else would he be in Tamriel, if it wasn't because of _him_.

Salthjofr groaned again, ignoring the blacksmith frowning at him, and dropped into a crouch. He threaded his hands into his hair and tugged, fighting down the urge to curse. _Why?_ He didn't understand. He thought he was finished with that, that that chapter of his career had been closed all those years ago. The beast had disappeared, been sealed away or _something_. His soul hadn't been collected, but he was _gone_, so the Order had assumed him chained and considered it over with.

So why was he here? Was _he_ back? _Why?_

The goat wandering the streets started nibbling his hair.

Salthjofr absently started petting it, though he did push its head away and direct it towards the much more tasty patch of grass by his feet.

He supposed he could understand the Order's decision to send him back, if Alduin really had returned, or been unsealed, or whatever happened. He just didn't _like_ it. Especially since he'd just finished another long-term mission and he's expected _time off_. Like usual.

But _no_. He couldn't even have _that_.

Why did Alduin have to pick _now_? Why not wait another decade or something, let him _rest_ a little before Salthjofr had to chase after the loitering bastard. Of course, that was unreasonable. Why would a malevolent dragon out to destroy the world (as he knew it) care about the holiday time of a being he most certainly didn't know of? Not that Salthjofr_ cared_ that Alduin couldn't be expected to care. It was his time off damn it!

Salthjofr resisted the urge to sigh. He'd done that already and he had a feeling that if he did it again, the guard eying him (not very) discreetly would come over and tell him to "stop lollygagging".

The goat tried to eat his ear. He leaned away.

The town was miserable and small – he'd made that point already, hadn't he? The smell of death lingered and calmed Salthjofr somewhat, which was one of the main reasons he hadn't left the second he sort of realized where he was. The Apothecary he'd passed had been creatively named – _Grave Concoctions _– and he suspected the other establishments were as well, though he hadn't had the chance to look at them before he'd stopped by the side of the aforementioned Apothecary. He'd spent a few blank moments just watching the town goat orbit the rotten tree stump some four yards in front of him before his situation had really hit him.

He was in Tamriel. Probably Skyrim, since that was the last place he'd seen Alduin. But, still, _Tamriel_. The horrid place that didn't seem to have electricity yet, but had magic and monsters instead. It had to be one of the worse worlds, and coming from him that was saying a lot. He'd been to many worlds, after all, as souls are everywhere and the Order doesn't focus on or care about particularities like specifying an agents "standard domain". You were sent where you were needed and that was that. It didn't matter to them if it was an entirely different reality than the one you were used to dealing with.

Tamriel had been the third world or reality or plane of existence (he wasn't one for specifics either, really) he'd been to, as part of one of the five year shifts that cycled through particularly hostile worlds. It had been during a civil war, one of the _many_ that Tamriel found itself in, and he'd been sick of the place once he'd been relieved.

Then Alduin had taken up the mantle of "World-Eater" and Salthjofr had been "given" him, for lack of any better term. Alduin was his to deal with, as a high profile soul, and it was his job to collect it, and any like it.

So, basically, to his disgust and resignation, Salthjofr had been assigned the task of processing dragon souls. And guess which horrible, miserable, _insane_ world had dragons?

He hated this world. Loathed it entirely.

The goat returned to nibbling his hair.

Salthjofr hated this goat too. Too bad it had at least another six years to its aura, or he'd have sent it away by now. Though, the guard probably wouldn't like that. The blacksmith either.

Damn goat.

* * *

A note of Salthjofr's name. It's old Norse: _sál _"soul", _þjófr_ "thief". So, Salthjofr. Good luck pronouncing it. (It's [Sailth-yo-fer] or something like that.)  
Gunhild means "battle in war." Also old Norse. (because that's a thing in Skyrim isn't it?)

_A/N: I never actually came out and said anything concrete about this character. Oops. _  
_Um, so he's a demony-thing-Idon'tknow-being whose job is sending deceased souls onto wherever they go. Every Reaper (that's pretty much what they are) can send on any type of soul. Each Reaper has a specific soul type they process (kind of absorb and keep until the soul is able to go back into the cycle) and this guy drew dragons. Processing is the roundabout way of sending, where the Reaper keeps the soul as energy (they gotta eat something) then, eventually, actually send it. So he acts like the Dragonborn in canon, but isn't. Everyone just thinks he is. But we'll get to that later. Also, yes, he's a bit insane.  
_

_Any questions? Send a review! (Please? I have no idea if this is even good enough to go anywhere, so I'd really like to know what you think. Even it's just "good!" or "nope!")_  
_(Also, it seems this account has turned into the dumping grounds of my incomplete stories that I actually kind of like a little but only have so much motivation for. Oh well. Enjoy them, I guess.)_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter two_

* * *

Once he managed to get away from the hair obsessed goat, Salthjofr wandered through Falkreath, ending up at the massive graveyard on the northwest side of the village. Standing in front of a grave on the west side was a couple, a pair Salthjofr came to realize were the parents of the girl he'd sent on. He debated wandering over to them, giving vague reassurances that she was alright, but decided against it.

Tamriel was one of those worlds that didn't take kindly to kind actions. Everyone was so _suspicious_ here, honestly.

Not that Salthjofr could blame them really, what with all their civil wars and _werewolves_. He still couldn't quite believe that, but since he _had_ seen a man turn into the beastly creature once, he had to concede the point. It was just so _odd_. There was also the fact that he had no idea what a werewolf's soul felt like, since Hircine had jurisdiction and never went through the Order to take those souls.

After a few minutes of just basking in the deathly feel of the graveyard – though, he suspected the energy was more from the shrines to Arkay next to the priest's door – he wandered further north, leaving the village entirely. Falkreath was nice – he'd come back some time – but he had other things to do. Like finding a weapon.

The Order was so _thoughtless_. How was he supposed to do _anything_ if the only thing he had with him was his pouch? Granted, the bag lead to a non-space and contained just about everything he owned, but not _weapons_. Weapons, oddly enough, didn't _fit_ in the pouch. So, while Salthjofr had food and books and a bedroll, he didn't have a _sword_.

Luckily, that was a problem easily fixed. He just needed to get out of sight. He'd learned his lesson last time, thank you very much.

(The people of Tamriel were so _scared_ of Daedra, it was almost ridiculous. It was less ridiculous when you thought of how a Prince could kill you with barely half a thought.)

Salthjofr walked until he was at the foot of the nearby mountain, next to a patch of running water. It wasn't as far from the village as he would have liked to be, but he hoped that with Arkay's influence so close, no one would notice the addition of some more... malevolent energy.

While he wasn't a Daedra – no matter what certain people believed – the Order used the same dimension as the gods of this realm. It was certainly large enough to hold all of them as well as anything else that needed a conjoining dimension. Most of the time, none of the groups came in contact with each other, which suited everyone fine.

Every Order agent had their own little section of Oblivion – as the people of Tamriel called it – and Salthjofr was no different. His, however, was closest to the pocket realms of this world's Daedra if only because he was one of the older members. All the young ones had their pockets further out into the empty void.

(Of course, he was closer to the Daedric Princes because this world was his main one, for all that he hated it. He almost _was_ a Daedra, in terms of power and ability, even though the Order was called "Arkay's Acolytes" in this world.)

Deciding he'd put it off long enough – the sun was starting to peek out from behind the mountain too – Salthjofr casually reached out, his right hand tensed like a claw, and made a quarter turn. A small hole tore through the air, opening like a lip and showing a swirling purple-black expanse. Salthjofr ignored how his surroundings noticeably darkened and how the plants wilted, as if something was weighing them down, and reached inside the hole.

To anyone looking from the side, his arm up to his shoulder vanished. In front, Salthjofr could see exactly was he was going, and continued to fish around for something suitable.

The bonus of having his space so close to the Daedric realms was that he could get armor – if he wanted it – and weapons from them. And Daedric weapons wouldn't be missed since they formed from the dark matter and energy of the realm, rather than having to be forged. Or at least, that was how it worked for the Daedra. Mortals still needed to forge them using Earth – Nirn here – materials. When made of Ebony and using the blood of a Daedra, these versions were _so much _weaker than the real deal.

Salthjofr hated weak weapons. Good thing he could get a real one.

After an inordinately long time, he pulled back and took his prize with him. It was a greatsword, only about a foot shorter than he was tall, and made of a metal so black it seemed to suck in the light around it. The edges were a smouldering red, like embers, like _blood_, and Salthjofr admired it as he absently flicked the portal closed.

It was a nice blade. A _strong_ blade. Perfect for slaughtering enemies, like every weapon Oblivion created.

He would enjoy this blade.

* * *

Salthjofr headed back for Falkreath with his new blade secured to his back in a sheath he called the portal back a second time to get. The first guard to see him regarded it warily, unconsciously leaning away from him when he passed and Salthjofr had to suppress of smirk.

Oh, but did he like riling up the morals. It was always so _fun_.

Eventually, though, he came to a stop next to a guard that didn't seem to want to instinctively run away from him. "Having any trouble on the roads?" he asked as a prompt. If he knew humans correctly, a question like that would lead to warnings of caution and, consequently, a direction for him to go.

"Watch the skies," the guard advised, eyes darting between said sky and the blade on Salthjofr's back. "Dragons won't give you a chance to fight up close."

Ah, he'd be fine against dragons. He'd picked up a few tricks over the millennia.

"And stay away from the crypts; the Draugr are waking more often these days."

"What are Draugr?" Salthjofr asked, staring at the guard blankly. Said guard balked, staring back incredulously.

"You don't know about the _Draugr_?" he asked, voice almost cracking. Salthjofr stared a moment longer, then shook his head. "Oh Divines. Uh– they're the Ancient Nords, long dead but still walking in their tombs. Everyone knows about them – use them as tales to scare the children away from the ruins. You _didn't know_?"

Salthjofr narrowed his eyes slightly, scowling indistinctly. _Havardr's been slacking off_, he thought. _I'll have to... speak with him._

In a dimly lit, comfortable room somewhere very far away, a man shivered.

_Oh no_, Havardr realized dimly.

Back on the outskirts of Falkreath, Salthjofr smiled at the somewhat bewildered guard. "Thank you," he said, then turned and continued to walk down the path leading east. Behind him, he was sure he heard the guard mutter about foreigners.

Well, to be entirely truthful, Salthjofr _was_ a foreigner. That guard just didn't realize _how_ foreign.

But they would all find out soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter three_

* * *

Salthjofr followed the path east as it curved north and started to elevate, the feet of the mountains distorting the ground enough that walking through this province was always a chore. The road wound through the plains, but he knew relatively where he was going. He would need a new, updated map, but for now he could make do with his memory.

There should be a village coming up. It was at the southern base of the Throat of the World, one of the only landmarks that remained the same between his last visit and now. That, and he was fairly sure the guardian stones were still in the same places. Even without a new map, he should be able to make his way to where he needed to be.

He may have underestimated the distance between Falkreath and the next village though. Salthjofr squinted up at the sky, noting that the sun was starting to dip back down. Afternoon then, and no village in sight.

There _was_ smoke though. It was dark and heavy, and even from as far away as he was, Salthjofr could smell it. It came was burning wood and metal, but there was something else under that, something he _knew_ he recognized...

Ah, yes. Flesh.

He was heading towards the aftermath of a dragon attack.

Salthjofr picked up his pace, settling into a steady jog and turning the next corner to continue south-east towards the wreckage. Even if he hadn't been there to help with the battle, he'd be able to help with the casualties. He couldn't feel another agent there, so it was his duty to send on the unfortunate souls.

Later, he'd have to find that dragon and _slaughter_ it, but that could wait until he got used to this world again.

After swerving around another bunch of trees, the village walls came into view. They were charred, but still solid, and Salthjofr silently commended the people of Skyrim for their architecture. As archaic as they still seemed to be, they were good at building things that stayed standing. The gates were still locked, but part of them had given way, and Salthjofr simply climbed through the hole it created.

Inside, it looked better than he imagined. A few of the tower walls had caved in, but on a whole, only the wooden houses took any major damage. Salthjofr skirted around a fallen beam, still glowing red from dragon fire, and weaved his way through a still smoking house to reach the area where he could sense the souls had gathered.

Dead or not, the people of Skyrim knew what to do after a battle. Congregating gave them numbers, even if they were injured, and enemies would have a hard time hitting them all at once rather than if they picked off separated individuals.

But they were dead, and most of them noticed this, huddled as they were with all their silver and see-through fellows. They weren't at the stage of panic yet, still numb from the attack, and Salthjofr sent a small thanks to Nocturnal for his luck. Panicking souls were never easy to deal with.

"Who are you?" one soul suddenly demanded, noticing Salthjofr as he approached and falling into a ready stance even though he was disarmed and eying the sword on the stranger's back with unease. He couldn't win in a fight, and the soul knew it.

Salthjofr slowed his steps, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Easy. I'm here to help."

A woman crouching on the ground laughed bitterly at that, a hint of hysteria creeping into her voice. "Help? How can you _help_? We're all _dead_!"

"I'm an Acolyte of Arkay," he told them, using the only term these people would know. Some of them looked at him in wonder and he figured that were the ones who knew just _what_ he was. "I can make you pass on."

"An Acolyte," a man in the back whispered, seemingly in awe. Salthjofr supposed he would be – agents appearing was even more rare than a Prince deciding to show up.

"Indeed," Salthjofr murmured, then reached out to grab at the nearest soul. He didn't have a chance to say anything before his form condensed into an orb which then shot up into the air with a push. With the group frozen at the display, Salthjofr moved through them, sending the rest before they could freak out.

He hated dealing with groups. They always panicked when one of their number disappeared, and he could only send so many in a single push. Usually just one. Two if he concentrated. And groups would scatter if he spooked them and then he would have to track them down and it was all so tedious.

Mortals were a pain. Idiots, all of them.

This group was better though. None of them got their wits about them fast enough to run, and he got through them all in record time, leaving Helgen – as he learned passively from more than one soul – empty once more.

There was nothing to be heard but the quiet crackle of fire, and Salthjofr basked in it, basked in the energy remaining in the air even if it was tainted by remnants of the dragon's power. And, speaking of the dragon...

He knew that signature. Was intimately familiar with it, even after all these years and perhaps a little bit because the Order had done something to him so he could find the bastard easier.

Alduin.

Salthjofr breathed in deeply, taking in and memorizing that scent of his foe. The trail was becoming cold, as it did when the origin wasn't around to renew it, but Salthjofr could track it easily. And it pointed... north.

North was High Hrothgar and Whiterun. That was where he would head. The city first, then he would tackle the mountain and the monks who lived on it.

As he left the burning village behind, Salthjofr absently wondered if the Greybeards had changed at all.

Unlikely, he decided. The old geezers would never change. At least Paarthurnax was good company the last time Salthjofr had visited. Maybe the old lizard was still around; he could use some intelligent conversation right about now.

Whiterun though. That was first. He could reconnect with old friends later.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter four_

* * *

Salthjofr had to pass through Riverwood – a boring little village – on his way to Whiterun, and he took the chance to duck into the general store with the intention of getting a map.

Instead, he found two siblings arguing with each other.

"I don't _care_ what you say, _someone _has to go after it!" the woman shouted.

"I said _no_!" the man shouted back. "I am not having you heading off into that ruin just to chase a thief! You know what's up there; if they don't kill him, the weather will."

"If he's done off by the Draugr, you're never going to get your claw back," she argued. "At least let me go to Whiterun – I can hire one of the Companions–"

"It's too much," the man shook his head with a sigh, reaching up to rub his forehead. "Just... drop it, okay Camilla?"

Camilla made a rude noise, but didn't make another comment. Instead, she turned sharply and marched up the stairs to the flat above the shop. Salthjofr watched her go with a hint of amusement – mortals were always fretting about and making such big deals out of small things.

"Hey," Salthjofr called, smirking when the man – probably the shopkeeper – whipped his head towards him with an audible crack. He winced, rubbing his neck.

"Ah, er. Good afternoon. You didn't–"

"See that match?" Salthjofr finished with a laugh. "Yes I did. You've a thief in a crypt?"

The man winced again. "Yes. Only stole the one thing, so we've still got lots to sell."

"I only need a map," Salthjofr told him, coming to hover by the counter. He breathed a little deeper once he was there and after a few breaths, he gleaned the information he wanted from the heavily saturated air. Lucan spent so much time in this spot of the shop, the pieces of soul that left him with age had attached themselves to the surroundings.

You could learn so much from soul residue. Names, age, the thing you eat the most. Fears and worries. Lucan was especially worried about the ornament – solid gold, in the shape of a dragon's claw – and wanted so desperately to get it back after all the trouble he went through to get it in the first place.

Salthjofr examined the man as he bustled about, looking for one of the newer maps. Lucan didn't look like the kind of man to do that sort of thing, but looks could be deceiving and greed made men desperate. And Salthjofr knew mortal souls in some of the most intimate ways – they were capable of so many great things, good and bad alike.

"Here you are," Lucan said, handing him a large map folded into quarters. Salthjofr thanked him and placed the required three Septims on the counter. Then he was out the door again, walking slowly as he unfolded his new map.

Well, the landscape hadn't changed. That was good. There were different towns and cities now, but settlements did that, so Salthjofr didn't pay it any mind. Whiterun was in the same place as he remembered, as was Markarth, which wasn't surprising.

He had to sigh when he found Winterhold and noted how small the "capital city" was. The next time he saw Gunhild...

Another time, Salthjofr told himself forcibly. He had to focus on what needed done now, not the discipline he was planning to level on a new agent. Gunhild would get hers later.

Salthjofr folded up and put away his map, settling into a lazy stroll as he left the single street of Riverwood. Going to Whiterun wasn't that urgent – Alduin had attacked before Salthjofr arrived in Falkreath, so it'd been two days already. No one was panicking about other attacks, so the dragon had obviously gone back into hiding.

Salthjofr absently wondered if Alduin had felt him arrive and _that_ was the reason he'd fled. He grinned. Well, if the bastard was afraid of him, all the better. He'd make sure that fear was justified.

* * *

Whiterun was the tallest part of the plains in the middle of Skyrim, and even if he hadn't approached it from Riverwood and thus from a higher elevation, Salthjofr would have been able to see it.

Like he'd seen from the map, it hadn't changed. The stone walls were more worn, of course, and the farms outside had grown since he last saw them, but that was to be expected. As was the new meadery. Salthjofr chuckled under his breath as he passed the building, musing on how the mortals loved their drink.

Not that it had _anything_ on Daedric liqueur. That stuff could put _him_ down.

The few farmers outside eyed him curiously as he wandered up the road, but he didn't do anything more than wave at them. And they always looked away once they realized he'd noticed them, which was a tendency that Salthjofr counted on to keep him from having unnecessary conversations with the mortals. That was one of the good things about Tamriel's paranoia – he was left alone when on the job. Unlike _some_ places, where the realms' own afterlife military constantly labeled him a _threat_ just because he was an unknown, and tried their hardest to _arrest_ him.

Idiots. It was no wonder some of their own had defected.

There were a pair of guards flanking the gate, and they leveled duel glowers on him when he approached. "Cities' closed," the guard on the left grunted, shifting his hold on the spear he was leaning against. "No visitors."

"That's a pity," Salthjofr told him, rocking back on his heels. The guard narrowed his eyes, but Salthjofr just waved at him and wandered back to the Khajiit caravan parked outside of the fortress walls. The designated vendor watched him as he approached, and smiled when Salthjofr dropped to sit across from him on the ground.

"Welcome," the cat greeted, smiling in a way that managed to look more genuine than some of his Nord trader counterparts. "If I cannot serve you, I am sure that one of my other traders can do so."

"I was looking for advice, actually," Salthjofr told him. The Khajiit – Ri'saad, a quick search told him – eyed him curiously.

"What is it you wish to know?" he asked. Salthjofr sneaked a glance back at the walls, then leaned forward with a sly smirk.

"Surely you know of ways into the city. Ones less... obvious than the gate."

Ri'saad eyed him long and hard, then his own smirk slid into place. "But of course, my friend. However, such knowledge comes with a price."

"Will this suffice?" Salthjofr asked innocently, pulling a satchel of moon sugar from his pouch. He watched in amusement as the Khajiit's pupils dilated, and handed the bag over when Ri'saad's hands twitched in an aborted move to grab it.

"Ah, moon sugar," he purred, inhaling deeply. He shook himself a moment later, and tucked the bag away before he could get distracted again. "Not many know," he started in a quiet voice, "that the tavern nearest the east wall has a cellar below it. Fewer still imagine that there may be a tunnel leading into it, hidden behind a wood store outside the walls. But, ah," Ri'saad leaned back with a flowing shrug, "this one knows not how true that rumor is."

Salthjofr only just held in a smirk. "No matter, I thank you for telling me." They exchanged farewells, and Salthjofr stood to check out this theoretical tunnel.


End file.
